Title Wave Page 14

  Tricia was right. When they finally got to the door, they saw the woman in charge of the ship’s bookstore manning a table and handing out peel-and-stick name tags to the guests; green for the booksellers, and gold for the authors.

  “Oh, dear,” Angelica groused. “It clashes with my dress.”

  “You won’t be the only one,” Tricia assured her.

  Once inside, Tricia took in her surroundings. Like most of the ship, the Commodore Club was a bastion of understated elegance. Dark wood clad the semicircular walls, and sumptuous upholstered chairs grouped in intimate clusters, most of which overlooked the bow of the ship, gave its patrons a wonderful view of what lay ahead of the ship. At that time of day, however, the sea was black and the sky above it was quickly turning from a dusky blue to ebony. At the back was a long bar that mimicked the shape of the room, and already had a crowd in front of it. Writers, Tricia knew, sometimes had reputations for being enthusiastic social drinkers.

  “Shall we get a cocktail?” Angelica asked.

  “We might want to wait until the line thins.”

  “Will it?” Angelica asked pointedly.

  “Maybe not.”

  Dori Douglas stood alone by one of the windows, her gaze seemingly focused on nothing. Tricia nudged her sister. “There’s Dori. I don’t think she has any friends on this cruise. Maybe we should go over and see how she’s doing.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Angelica said, and followed Tricia.

  “Hello, Dori.”

  “Oh, hello.” The poor woman sounded rattled.

  “I haven’t had an opportunity to offer my condolences to you on EM’s loss,” Tricia said, her voice soft.

  “Thank you. It was a terrible shock,” Dori said sadly.

  “I must admit I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “EM’s editor has authorized me to carry on and represent EM for the rest of the cruise.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to that?” Angelica asked.

  Dori nodded. “I probably knew her as well as anyone, and as president of her fan club, I can certainly talk knowledgeably about every one of her books.”

  That was probably true.

  “We haven’t had an opportunity to see or talk to Cathy since EM’s death. How’s she doing?” Tricia asked.

  “Oh. You know her?”

  “We met on our first night at sea.”

  Dori nodded. “I guess she’s okay. She seemed more annoyed than anything else. I guess Emmie was her biggest-selling author.”

  Yes, Tricia could see where that might affect Cathy’s corporate future.

  “Not to be indelicate,” Angelica said, lowering her voice, “but, what will happen to EM’s body when we get back to New York?”

  Dori shrugged. “I really don’t know.”

  “Who was EM’s next of kin?”

  “As far as I know, she has several cousins who live in the Midwest, but from what she said, EM wasn’t close to any of her family.”

  If she treated them like she treated her fans and admirers, that wasn’t at all surprising. “Will there be an autopsy?” Tricia inquired.

  Dori grimaced. “I suppose so. I mean, her death was unattended.”

  “Did she have any heirs?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t confide much in the way of personal information. Despite her paying for me to come along on this trip, we weren’t exactly friends, although at one point I thought we might be.”

  “What changed your mind?” Angelica asked.

  Dori shrugged. “A lot of little things.”

  “The woman was just plain nasty.”

  Tricia, Angelica, and Dori turned at the comment made by a woman who hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion, and by the bit of a slur in her voice, Tricia suspected she may have hit the cash bar one time too many. Her name tag said Ginger French, and underneath was apparently the store she either owned or worked in, the Tattered Tome.

  “Sorry to eavesdrop,” Ginger said without sincerity, “but that EM was a bitch. Not many on board were sorry to hear she’s dead.”

  “Well, I am,” Dori said defiantly.

  “Sure. From what I understand, she was your meal ticket.”

  “She was not! EM never paid me a cent.”

  “Then how did you afford to come on this trip?”

  An angry blush colored Dori’s cheeks.

  “I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” Angelica said quietly but firmly.

  “Shut up!”

  “Now you’re just being rude,” Tricia said.

  Ginger went to take a swig of her drink, but found it empty. She shook the ice in her glass. “I’m going to get another.”

  “I think you’ve had enough,” Tricia muttered.

  Ginger glared at her, but then moved off without further insult.

  “This isn’t much of a party,” Dori said, her voice sounding shaky. “I’m going back to my room. At least there I won’t be abused by drunks. If you’ll excuse me,” she said, and hurried toward the exit.

  “Oh, dear,” Angelica said, watching her go.

  Tricia had hoped to ask Dori about EM’s financial state. She’d have to wait for a better opportunity.

  Maria Hartley, their tablemate from the authors’ luncheon, waved to them from across the room. Angelica smiled and waved back, and Maria charged toward them.

  “Oh, I’m so glad to see you ladies again.”

  “Same here,” Angelica said with sincerity. Good old Ange never met a person she didn’t like—until they gave her reason not to.

  “I wish we’d had more time to talk at the luncheon today before . . . well, everything happened.”

  “Yes, me, too,” Angelica agreed.

  “I’d love to hear more about your cookbooks.”

  “And I’m more than pleased to tell you about them,” Angelica began before she launched into what turned out to be a lengthy description.

  Since Tricia had proofed both of Angelica’s cookbooks, she found her attention wandering during the ensuing discussion. Until she noticed Security Officer McDonald standing at the side of the room, speaking with Mindy Weaver from Milford Travel. Since Angelica was otherwise occupied, she sidled her way through the partygoers and made her way across the club.

  “Oh, Tricia,” Mindy called.

  “Hi, Mindy. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”

  “I’m available for everyone on the tour, in the grand lobby, every morning from eight until nine,” she said rather defensively.

  “I didn’t mean that,” Tricia said with a bit of a laugh. “I meant I haven’t seen you mingling.”

  “I’m mingling now.” She turned to McDonald. “This is Officer—”

  “McDonald. Yes,” Tricia said, “we’ve met.”

  The officer nodded. “It’s good to see you again, Ms. Miles.”

  “Are you on duty?” Tricia asked, noting that unlike just about everyone else in the room, McDonald wasn’t holding an adult beverage.

  “The crew are often asked to attend parties as a goodwill gesture,” he said, but Tricia wasn’t fooled. No doubt he was staking out the party—or, rather, its guests. Perhaps he didn’t believe EM Barstow had died by her own hand, either.

  “We were just talking about making port tomorrow.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, but not the crowds.”

  “The only crowds are likely to be the other passengers,” McDonald said.

  “What do you mean?” Tricia asked. “Aren’t the winter months typically high cruise season?”

  “In the Caribbean,” McDonald agreed. “However, Bermuda is a good way north of that.”

  “I did know to expect cooler temperatures, but . . .” Tricia wasn’t sure what else to say in that regard.

  “The Celtic Lady i
s the only cruise ship that will dock in Hamilton.”

  “But that’s fabulous! The shops and restaurants will be pulling out all the stops to make us all comfortable and entertained,” Mindy explained.

  Or were they liable to raise all the prices because they wouldn’t have to compete for tourist dollars?

  “Are you taking one of the excursions?” Mindy asked Tricia.

  She shook her head. “Angelica wants to take me to some fabulous restaurant she knows and maybe have a little retail therapy.” Tricia turned to McDonald. “Do you ever get shore leave?”

  “Occasionally,” he said. “But tomorrow won’t be one of those days. I prefer to save my time off for when we’re in home port.”

  “Do you have a sweetheart you visit?” Mindy asked. Like Tricia, had she noticed a lack of a wedding ring on McDonald’s left hand?

  “My brother, his wife, and their kids are there.”

  “No wife?” Mindy pressed.

  “It’s hard to have a family when you’re at sea for months at a time.”

  “I’ll bet,” Tricia said, and sipped her drink.

  “Mindy!”

  Tricia and Mindy turned to find a woman beckoning to them—or rather Mindy.

  “Oh, dear. It’s Leona Ferguson,” Mindy muttered under her breath. The queasy lady from the bus trip. “She’s been a thorn in my side since she got on the bus back in Stoneham.”

  Leona approached. “Mindy; thank goodness I ran into you. I have a little problem with my stateroom and I can’t get anyone to help me.” She eyed McDonald. “Unless you could help me, sailor.”

  Both Tricia and Mindy started. “Leona, this is Officer McDonald of ship’s security,” Mindy explained.

  “Maybe he can get someone to come down and unstop my sink.”

  Mindy’s smile was forced. “I would be glad to help you in that regard.” She reached for Leona’s arm and began to steer her away. “If you’ll excuse us.”

  “Oh, dear,” Tricia said. “Sorry about that. Does it happen often?”

  “More than you’d think,” McDonald admitted.

  Was this the right time to ask him about EM’s death? Would she ever get another opportunity? She decided to go for it. “Have you thought any more about the circumstances of Ms. Barstow’s death?”

  He nodded. “Again, more than you’d think. Especially after you came up with her keycard.”

  “I don’t suppose there were any fingerprints on it.”

  “Of course there were; yours.”

  Tricia frowned. “Just because I found her doesn’t mean I killed her. And I haven’t visited the ship’s kitchens to drop pieces of evidence into cake batter, either.”

  “It may make you feel better to know that we reviewed our surveillance footage and it confirms your story.”

  Tricia bristled. Her story? Then again, it was good to know that for once she wasn’t a suspect in a suspicious death.

  “It’s beginning to sound like EM’s death fits the classic locked-room mystery scenario.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “When a crime is committed under impossible circumstances. Think about it. Ms. Barstow was locked in her room. Someone came in, probably strangled her, dragged her across the rug, and then strung her up in her shower to make it look like suicide.”

  “How did you know she was dragged across the rug?”

  “Rug burn under her chin.”

  McDonald’s eyes narrowed.

  Noting his expression, Tricia explained. “I saw it when I found her.”

  “You’re very observant.”

  “That’s because I read so many mysteries. I also read police procedurals and psychological suspense.”

  “Yes, so I heard.”

  “You heard?” Tricia asked, instantly wary.

  “Yes. I spoke with a Chief Baker of the Stoneham Police Department.”

  Tricia’s spine stiffened, a flash of annoyance coursing through her. “And what did he have to say?”

  “Why are you upset?” McDonald asked.

  “I don’t like it when someone doubts my word.”

  “I didn’t doubt your word, I just wanted to verify who you are and what you might have to offer in this investigation.”

  So, he was investigating.

  “And what did Chief Baker”—Tricia’s former lover—“have to say?”

  “That I should listen to anything you have to offer. He said you have an uncanny understanding of the criminal mind.”

  Well, at least Grant had been kind in his recommendation.

  “As I said,” Tricia said, trying to keep her voice level, “I’ve read a lot of mysteries and true crime accounts. It’s been an education.”

  “So I understand.”

  Was he making fun of her?

  Tricia decided to take the high road. “I like to think that the thousands of books I’ve read, both fiction and nonfiction, have given me a different perspective. I’ve been able to help during the course of several police investigations.”

  “So Chief Baker said,” McDonald said blandly.

  And?

  Tricia gazed into McDonald’s hard dark eyes and had a feeling that nothing she had to add would make a difference to this by-the-book man. She felt like smacking him. Like telling him to go take a hike. But instead she looked around the room and saw Angelica speaking with one of the mystery authors who’d joined the cruise. Those ladies—and men—were her kindred spirits. McDonald was a stick-to-the-rules security guy and probably had never had a creative idea in his life. Well, more’s the pity.

  Tricia forced a smile. “I’ll let you go back to your work, Officer McDonald.”

  “My name is Ian,” he said, his voice softer than he’d used during the entire conversation.

  “It’s a nice name,” Tricia said.

  McDonald shrugged, but then he gave her a sweet smile. Was he playing both roles in the good-cop/bad-cop game, or was there a chance he was attracted to her? A shipboard romance was the last thing Tricia wanted . . . but what if it was the very thing she needed to get over the loss of her ex-husband, Christopher?

  Stop! her logical mind told her. McDonald had more or less called her a nosy busybody and then did an abrupt about-face. Was he messing with her mind? She decided to test it.

  “Do crew members ever dine with passengers?”

  He shook his head. “Just the captain.”

  “That’s too bad. Then you’ve never dined in the Kells Grill?”

  “No, but we have a nice dining area and eat pretty much the same food as the passengers.”

  “The food’s been very good,” Tricia admitted. And very fattening. She’d been sorely tempted to overindulge, but had always reined in that desire. She wasn’t about to change a lifetime habit just because the pastries, entrées, and other desserts had such beautiful presentations.

  “Will you be staying in New York after we dock?” McDonald asked.

  Tricia shook her head. “We’re being met at the pier by a bus and going straight home to New Hampshire.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Did he have shore leave while in New York?

  “I’ve been to Hampshire in England, but never New Hampshire. Is it lovely?”

  “Some parts are truly magnificent. They have wonderful skiing in the northern part of the state, but I live on the southern border.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  Was he flirting with her? What about the ship’s ban on passenger-crew fraternization?

  “I’m originally from Connecticut,” Tricia answered. “I lived in Manhattan for more than a decade, and I loved it. But now I’m happy in a quaint little village doing what I always wanted to do.”

  “Selling books?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  �
��Do you ever wish for a more exciting life?”

  Tricia had to bite her tongue. How could she describe all the excitement she’d experienced in a tiny village and how she had come in contact with more crime than she had while living in one of the biggest cities in the world?

  “The quiet appeals to me.”

  McDonald nodded. “I’m originally from a small village myself. When my seafaring career is over, I’ll probably return there.”

  “I’ve only been to Dublin. It was wonderful.”

  “Maybe one day you’ll venture out into the Irish countryside.”

  “Maybe,” Tricia agreed.

  “Tricia!”

  Tricia looked up to see Angelica barreling toward her.

  McDonald nodded. “It was very nice speaking with you, Ms. Miles.”

  “You, too.”

  McDonald moved aside to mingle with some of the other booksellers just as Angelica arrived.

  “So, what did Mr. Handsome have to say?” Angelica asked, and waggled her eyebrows provocatively.

  “Not much,” Tricia said, “But he’s at least suspicious about EM’s death.” She wasn’t about to mention that he may have–and that was a BIG leap of faith—flirted with her. If he was at sea for months at a time, perhaps he flirted with scores of women. No way was she going to get her hopes up.

  “So, are you going to travel to make an appearance at Maria’s library?”

  Angelica sighed. “No. It’s just not cost-effective. But I did agree to send her copies of my books to put on her shelves—but only if she promised to actually put them there, and not stick them in a Friends of the Library sale for a buck each—if that.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard that same lament from mystery authors way too many times,” Tricia agreed.

  “There are far too many people looking for freebies and not realizing that authors actually have to make a living off their writing. I’m lucky. I have other sources of income. But thousands of authors don’t have that luxury,” Angelica said emphatically.

  “Maybe the readers on this trip will realize that by the end of the voyage.”

  “We can only hope,” Angelica said. She looked back toward the bar. “Do you want to try to enter the line here, or go find another place to have a drink?”

  “I think I’m maxed out in this locale.”